


LUST (Love & Unresolved Sexual Tension)

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Angst, Misunderstandings, incubus, magic made them (almost) do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Derek… Incubus, remember? This isn’t… we aren’t…”</p><p>Derek cuts off his words with his mouth (it’s fucking effective, why hasn’t be been doing this since the day they’d met?) and breaks away again long enough to growl “I’ll send it a fruit basket later.”</p><p>--</p><p>The pack has to deal with an incubus. This was going to be a PWP but I'm a giant mushball so ended up being about feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	LUST (Love & Unresolved Sexual Tension)

He hardly notices anything’s off until the hand is slipping under his shirt. The touch had felt so easy, so _comfortable_ until now, but suddenly he feels hot. The _hand_ is hot, sending sparks through him with every brush of skin on skin. Stiles’ eyes are dark and hungry when Derek slides a wary gaze back along the bar to meet them, the want in them drawing Derek in, tugging at his own need.

And all at once… suddenly he _really_ needs.

It seems like the most natural thing in the world to shift his stance slightly, such a small movement, until Stiles is right in front of him. Stiles moves too, twisting his body, legs parting just barely so Derek can take one more sliding step forward and stand between them, backing Stiles straight into the bar. And Stiles isn’t stopping him, the hand at the small of his back coaxing him in, the other sliding clumsily up from his wrist (when had it even caught his wrist?) to clutch his shoulder, massaging into the muscle there. Derek’s hands are on Stiles’ narrow hips, palms aching with sensation, too much and needing more, and then Stiles’ breath is hot on his face, sweet from the coke he’d been drinking.

Derek had refused to buy him alcohol, had confiscated the frankly terrible fake ID he’d brought along with him: “we’re here on a mission, Stiles, this isn’t a fun night out.” “Not with _you_ here it isn’t.” Stiles had scowled while Derek rolled his eyes, and… Derek had been so annoyed with him just two minutes ago, frustrated that he’d been relegated to spending the stakeout side by side with the hyperactive human of all people. But now his breath is hot and close and Derek feels _dizzy_ with the need to be touching him, touching more, _closer_.

He takes a second, redirects from the lips that seem to be calling to him - pink and parted and gasping too-quick gulps of air - and buries his face against Stiles’ throat instead.

It’s a terrible plan. The scent of the teen does anything but ground him, and he’s mouthing, _biting_ along the pale skin the second he ducks in. The taste of him, _god_ , the _scent_ of him… A needy sound drags free from that pale expanse and long fingers are threading through Derek’s hair, sliding past the waistband of his jeans, just the tips of his fingers digging into the swell of Derek’s ass and he’s so _hot_ , he needs friction, he needs…

“What is this?” he breathes against Stiles’ jaw. Stiles is nuzzling into the contact, arching his throat and rubbing in harder in fast, alternating motions like he can’t decide what to do with himself… Or maybe he’s just shaking his head, because something’s obviously happening, something’s going on here.

“I don’t… _more…_ ” Stiles’ voice is a wreck and Derek can’t imagine how _he_ sounds when those fingers manage to wiggle down further, fighting his skin-tight jeans for every inch as the nails dig in and tug Derek’s hips right against Stiles’ own. Their groins grind together and everything in Derek lights up at the contact. He's buzzing,on  _fire_. A broken noise tears from his throat and he feels Stiles shudder against him.

He’s growling now, feeling almost inhuman as he throws a hand out behind Stiles to brace them. It slams into a glass, sending it shattering to the floor, and Derek remembers suddenly that they’re at the club, they’re in  _public_ , the rest of the pack and who the hell knows who else is _right there_ but Derek can’t focus on that, his outstretched hand clutching at the far end of the countertop and wrenching his body forward to grind, bruisingly hard, into the hot body in front of him.

A punched out noise escapes Stiles and then a leg is around Derek’s thigh, hips rocking up to meet his just as fiercely.

They’re rutting shamelessly against the bar, letting out groans, gasps, and whimpers with each breath… and someone should probably be saying something, should be stopping them or reacting _somehow_ but all Derek hears past Stiles (what the hell matters beyond Stiles?) is the throb of the music and more distant breathing. More distant _moaning_.

Something’s wrong, this is definitely wrong.

He bites his way fast across Stiles’ jaw, rubbing his rough cheek against achingly smooth skin, and forces his eyes open enough to take in the rest of the club. It’s all a haze, his vision sliding, slipping out of focus as Stiles ducks his head to start sucking hungry kisses into his collar.

There are bodies writhing together – not dancing, _writhing_. Ragged, undulating rhythms that fall in and out of sync with the music. Sex is heavy in the air, thicker even than alcohol, and there’s too much skin, too much even for here, clothes discarded in careless patches across the floor… fuck, that’s a good idea. He needs Stiles to be naked. He needs to be naked against him. Inside him.

He needs to _focus_ , because…

“Incubus,” he manages, hand clawing up beneath Stiles’ shirt, palming up his spine, going all the way up to clutch at his nape so that his whole forearm’s buried under that awful confining fabric. Stiles is mouthing at his ear, manages to choke back the soft, needy noises spilling out long enough to laugh.

“Been called worse.”

The bartender is leaning in against the counter from the other side, one hand out of view, doing something beneath her hiked up skirt. Her eyes, lust-drunk, focus in on Stiles’ neck.

Derek is snarling before he even thinks about it, vision going red, nails digging straight into the glossy black counter. She stumbles back, wide-eyed, moving fast away from them down the narrow aisle of the bar. Derek grins fiercely, feels a surge of satisfaction until Stiles’ hand slides from its place in his jeans to clutch the side of his face, turn it until they're facing each other. Some of the want clears away, Stiles’ brows furrowing.

“Derek, you’re wolfed out.” He’d known his eyes had changed, but he realizes suddenly that his teeth have gone sharp too, body thrumming with the familiar buzz of strength that comes with his werewolf form. “You can’t wolf out here, we’re in public, we’re…” For the first time, Stiles seems to consciously realize what’s happening, eyes scanning down Derek to where their hips are still rocking, just slightly, too needy to stay still with such sweet friction close by. “We can’t have sex here either. You, me. Sex. God, sex, we should…” He almost dips forward again, eyes going to lock on Derek’s mouth, but he swallows and squeezes them shut instead. “Right. Yeah. Incubus.”

Derek tries to channel his wolf away, manages surprisingly fast at the prospect of kissing Stiles properly.

Stiles’ words are buzzing out to a distant white noise, only important so far as they’re making Stiles’ lips move and dance so enticingly. But they’re also keeping Stiles from kissing him, and then Stiles pauses long enough to lick those lips and that’s too much.

Derek has him by the nape a second later, surging forward to press their mouths together and sparks are _screaming_ through him, better than the rough grind of their hips, better than anything, anything except maybe the thought of being buried deep within Stiles, or Stiles filling him, or both. _God_ they should do both. They should do this for hours, all night. Forever. Nothing’s more important than this sensation, this _connection_ , except maybe getting more.

The second their lips touch, Stiles’ jaw clenches. He makes an aborted, flailing motion like he’s trying to push Derek off, but a second later he’s clawing for him to get closer, digging into his shoulders and Stiles is leaving _welts_ in him, bruises where their bodies crush. He wishes they’d stay. He wants everyone to know he’s had this, that he’s been claimed.

Their bodies are moving frantically together, mouths a scramble of fast, biting kisses and deep, slow surges that transform the sparks into writhing tendrils in Derek’s chest. The grinding slows as the kisses deepen, the sound and smell of sex fading out around them as Derek’s heightened senses focus all their attention on the slow slide of Stiles’ tongue against his.

When Stiles breaks away, gulping in much needed breaths, Derek thinks he might have been happy just kissing Stiles until he’d passed out.

“Derek…” His name sounds amazing on Stiles’ tongue. He’s never felt particularly proud of his name before – it’s just a name, just happens to be his – but the breathless, wrecked way Stiles gasps it… Derek doesn't ever want to hear anything else. “Incubus, remember? This isn’t… we aren’t…”

Derek cuts off his words with his mouth (it’s fucking _effective_ , why hasn’t be been doing this since the day they’d met?) and breaks away again long enough to growl “I’ll send it a fruit basket later” before going back for his neck. That _neck_. The pounding pulse under a thin layer of skin, the way the breaths hitch and shudder right against his mouth… He can feel every inch of how he’s affecting Stiles, suck in the scent of his spiking arousal. He can’t decide if the mouth or the throat is more appealing, wants everything. Wants everything right fucking _now._

There’s a flutter of movement against the throat as Stiles laughs, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice as he shifts his leg, hitches it more firmly around Derek’s thigh.

“Oh god, a joke, that …Hey, I’m only worth a fruit basket? I feel cheap now. I feel used. I’m not even the one _getting_ the fruit bask-unff—”

Derek’s thumb has found its way to Stiles’ mouth, running along the bottom lip and Stiles sucks it into his mouth without even bothering to finish his word first. For a second he just sucks hard, teeth grazing across the skin as he drags it in deep, and then he lets out a soft groan and pulls it free with a pop, breathing “Ok, preview.”

And then all four of Derek’s fingers are being dragged into Stiles’ mouth, lips carefully drawn over his teeth even as his tongue flits and feathers across the pressed-together digits, wetting them. Derek’s cock jumps, achingly hard, and he breaks away from the line of purpling bruises across Stiles’ collar, drawing back just enough to watch Stiles steadily fellating his fingers.

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze and smirks around him, hollowing out his cheeks and running his tongue down the length of his middle finger from the base to the tip. His eyes roll shut and he _moans_ , like he’s imagining the real thing. Imagining his lips bobbing over Derek’s leaking cock.

Derek… Derek can’t think. His skin’s burning, his cock _aching_ in his jeans, balls going tight at the image. He could come from this, from just the idea of Stiles on him.

And then a hand touches his hip, a sweaty body and a stranger’s warm breath closing in against his ear. Stiles drops his hold on Derek’s hand, eyes going fierce, pulling their chests together and shoving a hand out hard. Derek feels the body behind him stumble even as Stiles snaps “ _mine_ ” loud enough for the patrons all along the bar to hear. Not that any of them are paying attention.

Something deep inside Derek thrills at the word, and the body doesn’t return.

He whines, trying to pull back enough to kiss Stiles, or to get his fingers back in that mouth, or get _something_ in that mouth, but Stiles is gripping him tight, shuddering, and Derek can’t bring himself to tug away enough to do so.

“Derek, we have to stop.”

No, no _no_ Derek should have kissed him. He’s an idiot, always making the wrong decisions. He hadn’t kissed Stiles and now Stiles wants to stop and he needs, he _needs_ , and he’s saying some of this out loud, getting a few frantic “nos” out at least, because Stiles’ hand is caressing soothingly through his hair and he’s making shushing noises and kissing apologies into Derek’s throat and that’s good, that’s definitely acceptable to start with, but Stiles is breathing words still, past the kisses, and Derek tries to force himself to focus on them because he doesn’t want to do anything to make Stiles stop again.

“Derek… fuck, you taste good, I… _crap_ … we… remember the incubus?”

It keeps coming back to the incubus. Derek knows that it’s supposed to be important, knows _he_ was the one who’d warned the group about it in the first place. But words and memories seem so distant now, the wolf inside him – hell, the _man_ inside him – too focused on this long-denied sensation.

His hand is gripping Stiles’ thigh, dragging it up until the leg’s locking around his waist, and on the next grind Derek swears everything in Stiles stops – his heartbeat, his breath, his stupid, beautiful mouth that won’t quit muttering distracted words that don’t matter anyway. He hopes for a second that it’s enough to stop Stiles’ racing mind as well, but of course it’s not, and after a harsh breath and a sobbing exhale he’s back to talking, whimpering: “It’s feeding off this. From us. Never targeted this many people at once before.”

“Don’t care,” Derek snarls, because he has to say something, because he doesn’t get how Stiles can be thinking about anything else right now; obviously Derek’s not trying hard enough. Off to the left, the bartender has been dragged halfway across the counter and into a kiss with an energetic blonde girl, who’s being kissed and caressed in turn by no less than three men. Derek wonders if Stiles would be less distracted if he’d let the bartender join in, and the thought sends a possessive surge through him that has him grabbing for Stiles’ jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them with a flick of the wrist, reaching down to cup him through his briefs. Stiles catches his hand before he can, stops his movement.

“ _Don’t_ , Derek. I… I can’t think.”

Which is kind of the point.

“That’s the point,” Derek manages, wishing he could come up with something smarter to say, but then… then…

That’s kind of the point.

Should he be thinking? He should be thinking… something. Stiles wants him to be thinking. He tries, and doesn’t get past the way the flashing lights illuminate the sharp lines of Stiles’ face, the plush softness of his lips.

Stiles is blinking wildly, looking everywhere but at him.

“These people are gonna die, Derek. I might die. Half the victims of the last few feedings died.”

The words hit Derek the way nothing else had.

Because… that’s right. They hadn’t expected... they hadn’t thought it would be able to feed on this grand a scale. The last few incidents had taken place in small, out of the way bars, or with a cluster of people in a hotel room, or behind a club. Twenty at most at a time. This club is boasting at least two hundred, and not one of them seems to be thinking clearly. Hundreds of people could die. _Stiles_ could die.

And who knows what’s become of the rest of the pack?

Protective instincts kick in, briefly overriding the lust. Stiles, meanwhile, seems to have exhausted his resistance getting the message out. The second his eyes fall back to Derek’s face, he’s clutching at his neck and making to tug him in again.

Derek drops his hold on Stiles’ leg, touching a hand to his chest and slowly pushing himself backward.

He aches, frustrated at the sudden lack of friction, and his skin itches and stings everywhere they aren’t touching.

“Derek…” Stiles shifts against the bar, hips moving like they’re still rocking into him. Offering. “No, shit, wait I didn’t mean it. I don’t care, I don’t care, come back.”

“ _Stiles_.”

The teen whimpers, bites his own lip in a way Derek thinks might be more about bringing himself back to focus from the pain of it than anything. It leaves his lip swollen and dark in a way that nearly sends Derek back over the edge.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, I just… I can’t…”

“Where would the incubus be? How do we find it in all this?”

They’d been keeping an eye out for a smaller group being shepherded outside or to the bathrooms, some signal that would narrow down the suspects. But in this madness…

Stiles licks his lips (and Derek wishes he’d stop doing that, it’s goddamn distracting. How is he supposed to see that and not want to trail the path of that tongue with his own?) and glances around the crowded dance floor, the narrow balcony running along one wall.

“Up there. Where it can see.” And then – Derek catches the scent of nerves wafting off him - his hand goes to trail up Derek’s forearm. “Derek, you need to get close to me.”

Derek’s breath hitches.

“I feel it too, but we need to focus—”

“No, Derek. You _need_ to get close to me or it’s gonna know something’s up. If we want to get close enough to stop it, we’re gonna have to blend in.”

Which… _fuck_ , Stiles is right. The room is a mass of twisting, groping bodies; they are becoming conspicuous awfully fast by staying rigid and separated like this. But it’s hard enough to stay focused from this distance. How are they supposed to…

Stiles’ hand tugs him in, gently, and when he goes forward it’s only maybe thirty percent about camouflage. The distance between them is like a wound he doesn’t know how to heal from. Then they’re back against each other, kissing before Derek can decide if it’s a good idea: slow and soft kisses that he fights to keep close-lipped even as Stiles grabs the edges of his tank top and surges forward, pushing off the bar and sending them both stumbling into the lust-filled masses.

Hands come out to run along Derek, hands that itch instead of burning, that he wants to slap away. A growl builds in his throat when he catches sight of the same happening to Stiles, and he beats one off before Stiles is grabbing for his hand, guiding it back to his waist.

“Let them.” It _hurts_ to hear that, that Stiles wants these other hands there. Stiles drags his mouth to Derek’s ear and bites at the lobe, murmuring “ _camouflage,_ right?”

That’s not good enough. Derek’s hands clench on Stiles’ hips, the angry rumble in his chest threatening to tear free despite the sensation of Stiles’ teeth on him, biting at the sensitive skin behind his ear. There’s another hand closing clumsily over his, trying to settle into its own place on Stiles’ hip. Derek wants to rip it right out of its owner’s socket.

They’ve made it halfway across the dance floor in clumsy steps, Stiles still guiding them steadily as Derek’s body starts to shake with anything but want.

“It grounds me,” Stiles breathes, pulling back from Derek’s throat with one last, dragging kiss. Derek’s going to have the scent of Stiles on him for days. “Those hands on you, they piss me off so fucking much it almost distracts me from how much I want you.” Derek hardly even notices the people pressing in on him anymore, all his attention on the crowd crushing against Stiles, hyperaware of every touch against the teen’s skin. “Need the distraction.” There’s a bite to Stiles’ voice now. “Or I’d be spread out on the ground for you right now. Want you pounding into me. Just feeling you through your jeans… Fuck, I know you’ll fill me so good.”

It's the type of line that would normally leave Derek's eyes rolling, but now he just pictures it, just imagines Stiles splayed out on the ground, _offering_ _,_ imagines the hot, tight slide and the images won't stop coming, and...

They’ve found the stairs leading up to the balcony, but Derek can’t resist the impulse to spin Stiles and slam him into the wall instead. He crowds in against him, wrapping around him – _no other hands, no one else, mine_ – and bites into his pale throat. Stiles _shouts_ some wordless noise between a “ _fuck_ ” and Derek’s name, clutching at him as the force of Derek's thrusting body drives him up to his toes.

Derek laughs, pressing soothing kisses into the fresh bruise.

“You sound like a bad porno, know that?”

“You _feel_ like a bad porno,” Stiles snaps back, voice lust-thick and dizzy. “No, that’s a lie. You feel like an awesome porno. I’ve seen a _lot_ of porn and let me tell you, you’re like grade A-plus material right here.”

Something wet and sloppy kisses into Derek’s shoulder from behind, and he cringes away from it even as Stiles’ eyes go dark.

“Right, good, grounding.” He shakes of his forming scowl, fingers slowly unclenching. “Ok, shelve the porn talk. Up the stairs, wolf-boy.”

Derek dislodges his latest pursuer, who shrugs and disappears back into what’s quickly becoming a floor-wide orgy. Dislodging himself from Stiles takes more effort.

They manage to make it up to the balcony… somehow. A trio of half-naked women are tangled together on the stairs. One of them looks up as they pass, grabs Derek’s thigh and _mouths_ straight into his groin. The wet heat on Derek’s neglected cock actually makes him falter, clutching at the rail and shuddering. But Stiles’ scent burns bitter, fingers clenching on Derek’s arm, and Derek pushes the glassy-eyed girl away, stumbling up the last few steps onto the narrow balcony.

And then Stiles is falling to his knees, scrabbling at Derek’s zipper, nosing at the line of his jeans and whimpering “let me, let me, I’ll do it so much better—”

“ _Stiles_.”

Derek drops to his knees as well, hating the loss of heat, of Stiles’ breath so close. The promise of… no. Because Stiles looks positively _wrecked_ , desperation and anxiety wafting off him in waves. Derek clutches at his cheeks and he lets out a needy whine, nuzzling into the contact.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. It needs to be me though, ok? Just me.”

“Just you.” Derek drops their foreheads together, resists the urge to climb onto Stiles’ lap right there, to pin him down and kiss away every bit of those nerves. “I think you’re right. It’s up here. Harder to think.”

“Maybe it’s harder to think when you stick your crotch in random people’s faces.” But Stiles nods, kissing Derek quick in a way that feels like an apology for his sharp tone, and Derek _doesn’t_ chase his lips as he pulls back, goes to glance around the balcony.

Instead he contents himself with raking his fingers down Stiles’ nape, peering in the opposite direction.

It turns out that they were right earlier – stillness is conspicuous as hell in this mass of writhing bodies. About ten yards away stands a solitary figure, leaning against the metal barrier and staring out at the dance floor with a rapt expression. He’s unremarkable in every conceivable way, the kind of person you’d have a hard time describing to a sketch artist because everything about him is just so completely _average_.

Stiles would make some joke. Drawing power from other people’s sex because he can’t get any, himself. But Stiles is distracted.

“Got him.”

“Awesome.” Stiles’ tongue is tracing spirals along Derek’s shoulder. “Kill it so I can get you naked.”

Derek snorts.

“When we kill it you won’t want to get me naked.”

Which makes Stiles pull back, a vaguely startled look in his eyes. He seems to weigh the words carefully, dig for a response, and ends up letting out only a soft “huh.”

Like he’d totally forgotten his usual contempt for all things Derek. Derek just rolls his eyes and drags them both back to their feet. They clasp each others' forearms unsteadily, and Derek barely fights the urge to just forget everything and shove Stiles back down, straddle him and kiss and bite claiming marks into every inch of his skin. He _can't_. He drops his hold on Stiles, and everything in the world feels wrong.

“More incentive to get this done, I know.”

But Stiles just blinks and looks down. He seems to drift for a moment, and then he’s squeezing his eyes shut and raking a hand harshly through his hair. Derek’s fingers ache to follow it.

“Ok,” Stiles breathes, wetting his lips (again _damn_ him). “We’re ok. Just down the wall a little, when we get close enough you’ll do your slashy thing at its neck, and no one _not_ evil has to die.”

Derek nods, loses himself a little in the curve of Stiles’ eyelashes. The soft lips, the angled jaw, moles dark against his pale face... so fucking beautiful. Derek hadn’t realized the incubus would produce such an… _emotional_ response. Everything he’d heard and read had just indicated physical reactions: A desire to jump the closest warm body. This… he hadn’t prepared for this.

“Derek?” Stiles is looking at him now, a painful softness in those brown eyes. “Hey, I feel like I’m losing you here. We’ve gotta focus. You’re only gonna have one chance for a clean swipe.”

He’s right. They’re so close to beating this thing (so close to slipping)… A sharp breath of lust-thick air, another, slower slow nod, and Derek is pressing their mouths together again. He doesn’t bother to stay close-lipped this time; the effort it would take to fight himself on that would just distract him from what needs doing. Stiles struggles though, clearly thinking Derek is losing himself when he sucks Stiles’ lip into his mouth and starts biting into the plush skin. He lets out a little noise of protest even as Derek starts to lead him along the length of the balcony. He bats at Derek’s arm, locks his jaw shut, whimpering, when Derek’s tongue flits over his lips, and finally Derek pulls back enough to murmur “last kiss, right?”

Because in a minute they won’t want to. In a minute Stiles will probably be spitting out Derek’s taste in exaggerated disgust, talking about mouthwash and gargling ‘til next June or something. And Stiles must realize it too because the words spark a frantic reaction. His jaw unclenches and a second later he’s licking hard into Derek’s mouth, clumsy with want and inexperience… and it’s the most amazing thing Derek’s ever felt.

He’s fooling himself if he thinks he’s ever _not_ going to want this.

That thought hits with enough force to make him stumble, and he lets Stiles push _him_ back against the wall now, press a knee between his legs. Lets himself rock forward a few times - quick, clumsy thrusts into Stiles’ thigh. For just a second, he lets himself _take._

He’s right at the edge when he twists them, slamming Stiles into the hard, cool surface and dragging both hands over his head. He pins them with one fist, the other going to palm against Stiles’ briefs through his still-unbuttoned jeans. Stiles is arching into him, whimpering something that might be his name if his own mouth didn’t keep getting in the way, and then he’s releasing Stiles’ wrists. They slide together, sideways along the wall, running blindly into another couple and tripping past them. At one point they give up on stumbling over each other’s feet and Derek finds himself hoisting Stiles up, a pair of long legs looping his hips as he carries the teen past another huddle of groping hands.

He remembers, barely, to open his eyes every few steps. To gauge the distance between them and the incubus. To remember that there _is_ an incubus, and this can’t become anything more than it is – a ruse, a distraction.

And then he blinks again and a pair of unnervingly average eyes is on them.

Stiles is back on his own feet by now, massaging Derek’s ass with both hands and making wild noises into his mouth. Derek’s eyes roll shut, and when he can think clearly enough to open them again the incubus’ interest has slid elsewhere.

One more twist of their bodies, one more frantic stumble, and they’ll be in arms’ reach.

Stiles is mumbling nonsensically, dazed and mindless - “Fuck me, fuck me. Wanna be inside you” – and grinding into Derek’s hand, which has found its way back inside Stiles’ jeans almost without Derek noticing. And Stiles is so damn close, he could just twist his wrist a few more times and he’ll be able to move past tonight with the memory of what Stiles looks like, what he _sounds_ like when he’s been completely undone.

“Yes, _yes_ , just like that Derek. _More_ …”

But Derek’s eyes fall on the incubus again, almost out of habit. On its empty gaze as it stares out over the writhing bodies below, all the people moving together, grinding and fucking without any say in the matter, betraying relationships, betraying their own bodies… and Derek’s hand on Stiles makes him suddenly sick, feels like the worst kind of violation. He jerks back, Stiles falling away at his shove and hitting the ground with a startled “oof.” Derek bares his claws and turns to swing at the incubus…

And freezes less than a foot away when he finds its bland eyes resting on him thoughtfully.

“I sensed the shift out of lust the second it happened. Did you really think you’d be able to sneak up on me?” Its voice is low and dull, entirely emotionless, distinguishable from the music only in that the pounding bass is mildly interesting and the creature isn’t. It sighs, eyes drifting down Derek’s form assessingly. “Not really an effort to step in personally, though. Too bad it'll be the last thing you do.” It shifts its stance, still leaning against the balcony, and lifts a beckoning hand.

Derek tenses, waiting for something to happen – an attack, a pull, a mind-fogging burst of lust – and quirks a curious brow when nothing does.

Stiles has pushed himself back to his feet. His hand touches Derek’s elbow, like he’s _this_ close to grabbing him and hauling him back from the incubus, as if he could. He keeps Derek between them, staying safely out of the creature’s reach.

“Uh… was that supposed to do something?” Apparently so, because the incubus frowns – the most _expressive_ expression Derek’s seen on its face all night – and looks down at its hand. Stiles jumps in again: “Wear yourself out roofying the whole club? It’s ok, performance issues are totally normal. And with a face like yours I doubt you get a whole lot of practice in, huh?”

Derek’s lips twitch. Antagonizing the incubus; of course he is. It’s almost funny when that sarcasm isn’t being directed at him.

The creature’s eyes slide back to Derek, and it lets out an ironic laugh.

“Oh, perfect. _True love_ , is it then? In a nightclub for lost souls, of all places.”

Stiles’ fingers twitch against Derek’s elbow, fall away.

“Um, did we just slip into fairy tale land or something? Derek’s not your true love, and he’s really not interested.” And then, as though remembering that he shouldn’t be speaking for Derek, he adds a wary “…Right?”

Derek doesn’t dignify that with an answer. The incubus looks… almost concerned, now. Its fingers roll again, eyes sliding between Derek and Stiles, before it clenches its jaw and it huffs out a “ _Fine_. Not ideal. But I can still distract you.”

And then the club is filled with sounds of shock, two hundred patrons’ worth of surprise, embarrassment and disgust as their minds clear at once… and Derek finds himself bombarded with the full strength of the incubus’ power.

_Stiles is everywhere, the scent of him, the feel of his skin, the press of his body hot so hot more needs more Derek needs Stiles is everything, distraction frustration addiction anchor clarity—_

There’s a distant howl and the air is thick with incubus blood, and the burn in his own blood is lessening. He’s collapsing to knees that feel too weak to do anything but wobble wildly under him. Stiles is there, kneeling in front of him, face strangely flushed, holding his shoulders, keeping him from hitting the ground. His brows are furrowing, eyes so soft and worried, worried about Derek. Strobe lights dance along the angles of his face, the kiss-bitten lips, the dark bruise at this throat in the shape of Derek’s teeth.

“Beautiful,” Derek breathes, wanting to kiss him, wanting to feel every inch of him. But he has no strength suddenly, the world fuzzing out strangely at the edges. “Love you…”

Stiles’ hands clench on his arms, eyes walling off, and the pounding of the music goes muted, bright lights dimming into…

 .-

He wakes up on the too-familiar examination table at Deaton’s clinic. His senses bleed back slowly, but he thinks someone might’ve been holding his hand. It feels strangely cold when his eyes float open, but no one’s standing anywhere near him.

Scott, it turns out, had been the one to kill the incubus. Once it had focused all its attention on Derek (“must’ve been really scared of you, man,” he’d said, and Stiles had snorted, adding: “or insulted”) the rest of the pack’s heads had cleared enough to find the source of the trouble and jump in to help.

“Stiles would’ve just shoved it off the balcony,” Isaac offers, smirking, “but he was a little, uh…”

“Tongue-tied?” This from Allison, who has the decency to look apologetic the second it slips out. Stiles flushes, scent going hot and ashamed all at once. Derek can’t remember what they’d been doing, can’t piece together anything from the second his blood burned beyond raw need.

Deaton announces that Derek seems perfectly healthy now that he’s conscious, and about five minutes later they’re all in the parking lot, shifting idly in the night air and avoiding each others’ gazes. How exactly do you close the night on an almost-orgy you had no control over?

While the others are looking elsewhere Derek decides to make his usual exit – his car’s still back at the club, and an eight mile run sounds like just what he needs to clear his head. But Stiles’ eyes find him as he starts to shift backward, and Derek stalls as he crosses the lot, moving at a clipped pace away from the silent, “let’s stare at anything but each other” game Scott, Isaac and Allison are all playing by the cars. Stiles doesn’t say anything when he stops moving, standing maybe a little closer in than usual. Within arm’s reach.

And Derek finds his fingers itching to tug him the rest of the way in. He wishes he could say it was a conditioned impulse from this evening, but if he’s being honest he’d have to admit the desire was there long before the incubus brought it out. Latent. Buried under layers of comfortable denial. Then the damn creature had made him touch Stiles, given him a glimpse at how _good_ they could be… and there’s no coming back from that.

“So, interesting night,” Stiles says once the silence has stretched on too long. Derek shoots Stiles a skeptical look and Stiles lifts both brows, daring him – _you come up with something better._

And Derek does, because the moonlight is playing over the plains of Stiles’ face and the memory of the _last_ words he’d spoken to Stiles hits him all at once.

 _Beautiful_ , he’d said. _I love you._

Too much. He’d said too much. It’s bad enough to have the thought floating inside his own mind, but now it’s out there, irrefutable. Stiles had _heard_ it. Derek’s amazed that Stiles isn’t mocking him for it already. That’s probably why he’d come over here in the first place. Derek will have to head it off somehow.

“What I said, before I passed out…”

…Somehow. But how do you push past something like that?

 _It’s ok if you don’t. I don’t expect you to. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I know it’s probably a horrifying notion for you, let’s just never discuss it again._ None of it will come out. Words of any kind feel suddenly beyond him.

Stiles’ eyes flutter all over his face as he trails off, then down to the ground. And Derek understands – Stiles hadn’t brought it up because he’s embarrassed for Derek. Because he _feels bad_ for Derek. Stiles pities him.

His whole body tenses to run. But Stiles’ lips twitch at the concrete.

“Dude, don’t worry about it. I know you were all hung over on sex mojo. Didn’t mean anything.”

Derek knows an out when he hears one. Stiles never lets anything go. If he can’t stand even the idea of Derek wanting him… He nods, glancing away. They’ll both pretend, then. He can do that.

“Ok, good. We don’t discuss this again.”

And he shifts back into the darkness.

.-

A week passes before he sees any of the pack again, and when he does _of course_ it’s Stiles. Stiles standing at the doorway to the loft, clutching a handful of papers and a book so old it looks like a good sneeze will send it flying to all corners of the room.

He looks awkward at even being here, shifting in the doorway, eyes catching for too long on Derek’s face before sliding past him to stare into the loft instead. Derek forces himself to stand still and silent under the scrutiny, blank faced, revealing nothing.

Finally, Stiles clears this throat.

“So, uh… I’ve been doing some research. To update the bestiary on incubi, in case we ever have to deal with them again.”

He’s still not looking at Derek, but Derek crosses his arms and walls off his expression anyway. They’re going to discuss the incubus, because of course they are. Of course the universe (and Stiles) won’t let Derek quietly leave the incident behind him.

“Sounds good.” His voice comes out too gruff, arms tense across his chest.

Stiles licks his lips, eyes flitting to Derek and away. There’s either something on the doorframe he finds particularly interesting, or he can’t stand even looking at Derek.

“And, um. I figured since you faced it you could help me out with some stuff.”

Derek blinks. If Stiles is avoiding him (which he obviously is), Derek would have expected a better reason to drag him here.

“You were there, you saw as much as I did.”

“Yeah, but I want to make sure I saw the _same thing_ you did.”

And that’s… vague.

“What are you talking about?”

Stiles’ eyes go to Derek’s tightly crossed arms. He lets out a small sigh and then he’s ducking around him, into the loft. The momentary closeness, the heat of Stiles’ skin, is enough to make Derek’s pulse jump.

Would it be wrong to just catch him against the doorway, pin him there between Derek’s arms and kiss him until he can’t see straight? He could claim a Pavlovian reaction. He would even take the dog jokes.

Stiles has moved past him, and Derek’s crossed arms have kept him from doing anything truly stupid. He’s not sure he’s happy about that.

He turns and watches Stiles, who’s pacing around in quick, aimless steps.

“So according to all the research, incubi are like, lust personified.”

And he pauses significantly, turning halfway to catch Derek’s reaction. But whatever point he’s trying to work to, Derek doesn’t get it. He settles for huffing an exasperated breath, arching a brow. Stiles clears his throat and shifts the papers in restless hands.

“Like… _everything_ about them is supposed to be hot and addicting, drawing its victims in. Its power, its scent, its appearance.”

Derek frowns at that. He hadn’t noticed any smell at all coming off the incubus, and as for its appearance…

“So what, we got a defective one?”

Stiles’ lips twitch. He bounces a little, smirking down at the wooden floor.

“So he wasn’t attractive to you?”

Derek could hardly even remember what he’d looked like. Brown…ish hair? Maybe?

“Wouldn’t be able to pull him out of a lineup.” Which was disconcerting in its own way, but Stiles’ grin is starting to stretch. He’s physically biting it back now. “I’m guessing that means something?”

The smile falters. Stiles’ eyes dart up, duck down again.

“Uh… right, ok. First I should probably get it out there that he was really bland to me too. Boring McBoringson of Dullsville, ok? Less than zero appeal there.”

Derek blinks at him, unsurprised. He’s not sure where Stiles is going with this, but Derek hadn’t exactly expected Stiles to be blown away by a man Derek could hardly remember.

“So I thought what you did – maybe something was wrong with our incubus, or maybe it wasn’t an incubus at all. But I, uh, I asked Scott about it, ‘cause he was the one who actually killed it, and he said the guy was pretty drop dead gorgeous. Like _Allison_ level attractive.”

The grin’s stretching across his face again, and Derek just wants to savor that expression but it, this whole conversation, is just making Derek uneasy. He can’t see where it’s leading. Doesn’t know what he should be preparing himself for.

“So… Scott has terrible taste in men?”

Stiles laughs. He’s clutching the old book so hard Derek thinks the cover might just crumble.

“No, that’s… what I’m saying is… incubi are _supposed_ to be attractive. They put out all this sexual energy and it’s like a trigger that makes everyone want everything as fast as they can get it. Unless someone has… protection.”

Derek thinks about the other hands on Stiles, the possessive snarl that had started deep in his gut. He hadn’t wanted contact, he’d wanted _Stiles_. Just Stiles. His eyes lock on the far wall and stay there.

 _Love,_ the incubus had said. Had scowled as he’d said it. Damn it, Derek thought Stiles had agreed to let this go. He grits his teeth, plays dumb on purpose as a defense. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe there’s a way to salvage this.

“So what, werewolves aren’t affected the same way?”

Which is stupid, because Scott’s a werewolf. But what else is he supposed to say? Why is Stiles doing this to him?

There’s a soft sigh.

“Derek… God, you’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“You don’t have to say anything.” _Please don’t say anything._

“No, look, can you stop being dense and taking this the wrong way? Remember how the monster’s magic mojo had zero effect on me either?”

Derek’s heart is fluttering too fast.

“You’re in love with Lydia,” he says, reasonably. “You’ve always been.” Maybe he can pretend he’s in love with someone else too. He can invent someone. But then Stiles, being Stiles, will just want to meet them, and…

“ _Derek_. No. God, can you just… read the stupid excerpt?”

He finds a Xeroxed paper being shoved into his hand, looks down at it for the distraction of not having to look at Stiles’ (suddenly too close) face, and then back up just as quickly.

“Proximity…?”

Stiles licks his lips. It affects Derek every bit as much as it had a week ago.

“Yeah. The, uh… the incubi’s magic is only affected if the victim’s in proximity to a person they share an emotional bond with. Like… serious romantic feelings, I guess.” He attempts a crooked smirk, fails. “Like, _true_ love or whatever the incubi called it. And proximity meaning… close. Like within arms’ reach. The power of the bond shelters the victim, directs all of the outpouring sexual energy into its ‘intended.’” He sounds like he’s reciting directly from a book now, his cheeks coloring. Derek can’t look away, can’t process his words.

Everyone else they’d seen had been all over… _everyone_. Grabbing anyone they could get their hands on. But Derek had wanted to claw apart anyone that came near Stiles and Stiles… Stiles had said the anger grounded him. That he felt the same.

“…Not Lydia?”

Stiles looks down. Derek wants to tilt his chin up, to see the truth in his eyes, but he doesn’t move. He can hear it in his heartbeat anyway, can smell it on his skin. The faint scent of _want_ that had gotten stronger with proximity, that’s battling with anxiety right now for dominance in Stiles’ scent.

“I could always smell the want on you. Thought you wanted her.”

“Dude, do you even know what a beard is?”

Are they talking about facial hair right now? Derek’s brows furrow, and Stiles just looks down, snorting.

“You were gonna know I wanted someone, I just figured… I mean. Lydia’s just been a safe obsession for months now. I act like I’m still into her because I know nothing’s ever gonna happen. It deflects from other things. Things I didn’t think I should be wanting.”

It’s too much. Too much when Derek has been carefully isolating himself for a week, fighting down his newly discovered feelings and convincing himself they’d never be returned. If this is a game, or a joke…

But he can hear the truth in Stiles’ heartbeat.

“Why didn’t you say anything after last week?”

Stiles tosses the ancient book and papers onto Derek’s couch. He rakes a hand through his hair, turning back with a scowl.

“Come on, you’d been hyped up on like 200 people’s worth of sex magic. How could I hold you to anything you said when you were coming down from that?”

It hadn’t been like that, though. All he remembered feeling was a sudden, painful clarity.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, and Stiles looks affronted.

“Well excuse me if I was trying to protect your virtue. You know, some people, rational, emotionally well-adjusted people, would probably be thanking me for being so selfless instead of throwing insults ar––un…”

Derek’s finger is brushing over his lips, just barely, but it’s enough to cut off Stiles’ words. His whole body shivers. Derek’s lips curl.

“Let’s start again, then. Stiles, you’re beautiful. I might be in love with you.”

“ _Shit,_ ” is Stiles’ response, but he sounds awed. “I, uh. I figured. ‘Cause research. But it’s still pretty awesome to hear.”

Derek arches a brow, and Stiles’ eyes go wide, his hand going to clutch at the wrist of the hand still drifting over his bottom lip.

“I mean, _yes_. Me too. I… for a while now. I might be kind of completely in love with you.” Then he swallows. “Crap, we just skipped a whole bunch of important dating steps there, didn’t we?”

“You want to slow down, forget we said anything?”

Stiles snorts, kisses Derek’s thumb, then his palm, then his wrist. Each touch sends a little shocked jolt through Derek. He’s actually here. This is happening.

“Have you ever met me? Diving in headfirst is kind of my specialty.” Stiles flushes before Derek even catches the innuendo, the memory of Stiles nuzzling into his waistband, whimpering, frantic.

“We don’t have to…” This isn’t just a hookup. There are feelings here, on both ends (and Derek’s still reeling from that). He’s determined to do this right. “I’m serious, if you want to slow down for a while…”

Stiles’ hand is on his cheek, caressing his nape, and Derek hadn’t even realized his eyes had drifted until the contact brings them snapping back. Stiles is inches away from him, breath hot on his face, eyes narrowed seriously.

“I want to buy that incubus a fruit basket.”

His eyes are dark with intent, hand gripping Derek’s fiercely. Derek finds himself smirking.

“You realize it’s dead, right?”

Because he can absolutely imagine Stiles going to the grave of a malicious, murdering demon and leaving a fruit basket. Stiles just rolls his eyes.

“Look at Mr. Logic there, ruining my clever turnaround on our banter.”

“’Fruit basket’ was clever?”

“You thought it was clever when you said it last week.”

Derek smiles, a too-bright flash of teeth.

“I was drugged on incubus magic. Can’t hold me responsible for anything I said back then.”

Stiles snorts, and his face is right there, and Derek can’t help leaning in and finally, _finally_ kissing his smirking mouth. The lips are as soft as he remembers, the angles of Stiles’ hips sharp under his hands. But the warm desire roiling through him is so much better than the frantic need from that night in the club. The blinding desperation, the constant need to get closer, had distracted from everything he’d already been experiencing.

Now they move slowly, taking their time as they trace the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. The jut of Stiles’ ribs, the shifting muscles of his back. The kiss is languid and slow and Derek still thinks he’d be comfortable never coming up for air. When they finally break away Stiles’ cheeks are pink with exertion, voice ragged and breathless.

“Christ. Maybe I should give you the fruit basket?”

Derek snorts, nipping at his jaw.

“I’m only worth a fruit basket?”

Stiles sighs against him, wetting his lips, long fingers catching in Derek’s hair.

“Is this how we’re gonna work? You snarking at me the whole way through sex?”

Derek nuzzles into his neck. The smell of him, the sound of his heartbeat.

“Probably.”

Stiles laughs, turns to nip at his ear.

“Perfect.”

.-

And because Stiles is _Stiles_ , next week Derek finds a basket of decaying fruit sitting on a patch of recently disturbed earth deep in the preserve.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


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